


Seeing Other People

by prophets



Series: Seeing Other People [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Blow Jobs, Coming Out, Fluff and Angst, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Richie Tozier, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23164825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prophets/pseuds/prophets
Summary: Once the truth is out there, the truth spills out in every direction. Dams are falling, levees are breaking, Trashmouths keep talking. “I’ve been in love with the little fucker since we were kids, and I forgot about it, obviously, but now that I remember and now that he’s here it’s like it never fucking stopped. And I love him so stupid much, oh my God, it’s embarrassing, dude. It’s some January embers shit. And I, like, basically got turned on watching him make eggs this morning.”--When Eddie moves in with Richie, it’s too much. All Eddie all the time means fixating on his habits, his scars, the way he chooses fruit at the grocery store. So Richie throws himself into the dating pool as a distraction, and means to move on from his lifelong crush. Things don’t exactly go according to plan.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Seeing Other People [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715803
Comments: 28
Kudos: 529





	Seeing Other People

**Author's Note:**

> One day I woke up and decided Richie and Eddie could be a little slutty. As a treat.
> 
> Mix of book and movie canon. Apologies to all readers in Nebraska. Unbeta’d.

Richie goes insane roughly three weeks after Eddie moves in. The first thing he does is yell loudly and directly into his hands. The second thing he does is call Beverly.

“Bev, I’m going insane,” he says. “Why the fuck did I think Eddie moving in was a good idea.”

“Why are you going insane?” Bev asks. “And this was a good idea. It was a great idea. I know you’ve been lonely since I left.”

Beverly had the privilege of being the first roommate at la Casa de Tozier. Sometime after running away from her husband and kissing Ben but before contacting a divorce lawyer, Beverly decided she needed to lay low. Get out of New York for a little while. Take it slow with Ben, who lived in goddamn Nebraska, as if it was even legal to live in someplace so fucking dull. So Richie casually mentioned his second bedroom. And Bev casually suggested an extended visit. Which is how, for six months, Beverly Marsh lived in Wicker Park, and how Richie discovered he liked having his friends close. And remembering he had friends at all. When Eddie announced his own divorce in the group chat, it took Richie a few tries to type out a private text to Eddie, but he got there in the end. He let Eddie know that the condo was getting kind of full, but he’d be happy to kick Bev to the couch if Eddie needed a place to stay. Then Ben bought a condo in Gold Coast and suddenly he and Bev had a view of the lake and Richie had an empty bedroom and Eddie had roughly five suitcases he artfully arranged into Richie’s Mustang as though the tetris of the backseat was something he could do in his sleep and not, like, secretly a test for Mensa.

Richie doesn’t know when he became a halfway house for divorcee Losers, but he doesn’t mind much. Or, he didn’t mind until this morning.

There wasn’t anything special about this morning. It was a Tuesday morning. By the laws of nature, nothing spectacular can happen on Tuesdays. Except for the miracle of Eddie Kaspbrak alive and well and making an omelette in Richie’s kitchen. With Eddie still looking for work, Richie often wakes up to the sight of Eddie, post-run, with an avo-kale-spinach-whatever smoothie swirling in the blender, or the sizzle of frying onions in the pan to flavor the scrambled eggs of the day.

On this unextraordinary Tuesday, Eddie’s omelette had garlic and basil and brie. Richie stood at the foot of the stairs looking into the kitchen. He knew he shouldn’t notice so many little details about Eddie. He couldn’t help but notice so many little, beautiful details about Eddie. The moles and freckles, the sloped shoulders, Eddie’s surprisingly delicate arms. He saw the way the eastern light caught red in the strands of Eddie’s hair. Something in his chest pulled rubber band tight and for a moment it was like Richie couldn’t breathe, as though he was the one with asthma. Fake asthma. Whatever. With Eddie’s back to him, Richie could briefly imagine sneaking up behind Eddie. Or—no, not sneaking, not while Eddie was cooking. He’d startle and overdo the eggs and blame Richie. Or he’d sprinkle too much pepper and blame Richie. No, instead, Richie would walk over loudly enough for Eddie to hear him approach. Eddie wouldn’t turn around; he’d focus on breakfast as Richie pressed his nose into the back of Eddie’s neck. Eddie would politely ignore the hand creeping under his shirt, but Richie would feel the way his muscles tightened at the touch. Eddie would have a harder time ignoring the hand on his ass, which would begin as a simple pet and evolve into a knead. By the time Richie’s fingers traced his entrance through the layers of yoga pants and briefs, Eddie would give in; he’d spin around in Richie’s arms and give him an open-mouthed kiss, and Richie would taste the dried sweat from Eddie’s run on his upper lip. Eddie would forget the spatula in the pan and the plastic would melt into the omelette and then Eddie would really blame Richie in a furious, full-blown “fuck you” fest.

The rubber band in Richie’s chest cavity snapped.

This wasn’t the first time in the last three weeks that Richie had begun daydreaming. There was the time at the grocery store when Eddie was debating between two grapefruits. It took longer than Richie thought humanly possible to decide on a fruit, but what did he know. Eddie told Richie to make himself useful and get some fucking arugula. But Richie was too zoned out thinking about how badly and madly he wanted to hold Eddie’s hand.

There was the time Eddie went on a five minute rant about the neighborhood yuppies and their inability to pick up dog shit. Didn’t they know feces became rat food and rats gave their dogs fleas? How hard was it to order some biodegradable bags on Amazon, Jesus, Eddie knew what the rent was like in this neighborhood, he looked it up, they could afford poop bags. Richie made a joke. Something about the only rescues he took in were Losers, not canines, so don’t worry, Eds, he won’t get a dog any time soon if Eddie hates them so much. “I didn’t say that,” Eddie had said with a frown. “I like dogs.” So of course Richie could think of nothing other than what Eddie’s face would look like pressed into the soft fur some some shelter mutt, which is of course when he stepped in a pile of dog shit, to Eddie’s absolute horror.

And then there was the time Eddie stepped out of the bathroom as Richie ascended the stairs. Steam poured out behind him, and he was in house slippers with a towel wrapped around his waist. Eddie’s eyes went huge when he saw Richie, and he nearly sprinted to his bedroom, slippers smacking the hardwood in his wake before Richie could crack wise about whether or not he caught a glimpse of Eddie’s dick. It dawned on Richie that Eddie had run off clutching his chest; his hand was positioned to cover most of the scarring Richie knew was there. Richie didn’t want Eddie to hide any part of himself. Richie wanted Eddie to feel comfortable around him, and in his home. Richie wanted a lot of things.

“I sort of—,” Richie starts. Pauses, swallows. Collects himself. There is no Pennywise here. There is no more fear. “I fucking love him, Bev.”

“Oh, hon,” Bev says in her sad, breathy way.

Once the truth is out there, the truth spills out in every direction. Dams are falling, levees are breaking, Trashmouths keep talking. “I’ve been in love with the little fucker since we were kids, and I forgot about it, obviously, but now that I remember and now that he’s here it’s like it never fucking stopped. And I love him so stupid much, oh my God, it’s embarrassing, dude. It’s some January embers shit. And I, like, basically got turned on watching him make eggs this morning.”

“Wow, okay.”

“Like, how am I supposed to keep living like this? When I can’t watch him take laundry out of the dryer without pausing to check out his ass? He does so much laundry, Bev, it’s insane. I’m afraid to look at my water bill.”

“I mean,” Bev says, “maybe tell him how you feel?”

“Are you fucking nuts? ‘Hey, man, I know you just divorced the replica of your mom and I’m the only thing standing between you and homelessness right now, how do you feel about sucking face.’ In what world does that sound like a good idea?”

“Okay, then wait for it to go away, Rich, I don’t really know what you want me to say here.”

Richie blows a lock of hair out of his face. “Sorry. Yeah. Thank you for listening. I just… He’s in a really, like, vulnerable place right now, or whatever, and I don’t want to take advantage of that.” Softer, he adds, “Every little thing he does drives me crazy.”

The things Richie doesn’t say are: I really seriously truly could not take it if Eddie rejected me. I’d rather have him as a friend than not at all. He told me about the leper and the dime a dozen blowjobs, which is a metaphor so obvious even I could understand it, and I don’t think I’m a leper and I’m working on feeling less gross in my own skin but what if there’s some part of his little, squirrelly brain that’s still worried about catching AIDS on the subway or from me and oh shit when’s the last time I got tested? I should probably get tested.

“Hey, Richie?” Bev says.

“Yeah?”

“Download Grindr.”

Richie downloads Grindr.

Bev suggests he sees what’s out there. She says it’ll hurt to keep things bottled up, but maybe what he needs is a distraction, an outlet that will allow all his pent up horniness to occupy less space in his brain. Now that he’s out—the single brave thing he did post-Derry—he deserves to have some fun. Deserves to be happy. Find someone who makes you happy, Rich, is what Bev says, as if the person who makes him happiest in the whole wide world doesn’t sleep fifteen feet down the hall.

So he throws himself into the deep end of the hook up pool, as if you could cure your love for your best friend by sucking anybody else’s dick. First there’s Jesse, then Aaron, then Carlos. He ignores Tad on the app but isn’t so picky when he sees Tad at Jackhammer. He lines up booty calls with nearly every guy who doesn’t start a chat with “hey arent u that comedian.” He ignores the fact that the majority of the guys he’s sleeping with are short with brown hair.

Eddie notices Richie’s schedule change, makes a few comments here and there, and Richie tries not to feel guilty about spending less time with Eddie, but he doesn’t try very hard. Richie makes sure to never, ever bring anyone home. He tries very hard at that. He sees a kaleidoscope of bedrooms: white walls, blue sheets, leather desk chair, clothes overflowing in the hamper, clothes on the floor. He takes the wrong underwear home at some point. His Uber rating climbs.

And it might not be fulfilling in the same way coming home to Eddie and kissing his eyebrows in the foyer and fucking him nice and long and slow until sweat pools on their backs and Eddie complains about how much Richie stinks while still stroking a hand through the damp hair on Richie’s chest could be fulfilling. But it is fun.

The thing is, Richie made a promise to himself, after Derry. When he and his friends lived despite a monster doing its best to kill them. You don’t get second chances like that. In the hospital where Eddie underwent the surgery that would save his life, Richie decided he would be better. He wasted so much time feeling afraid of the world. He was buried under layers of bullshit, it would take a while to wash off, but. He thought maybe he deserved it. He thought maybe he owed this to himself. He was so sick of feeling ashamed when he wanted to feel loved.

Not that he was keeping very good on his promise. But he would try.

\---

There’s an evening when Richie comes home after drinks—and other things—to find Eddie on the couch. The TV’s on, but Eddie’s focused on his phone. Richie settles in for the episode of House Hunters playing.

“So how do I set up this Grindr profile?” Eddie asks, apropos of nothing, as if he hasn’t hit Richie with a cartoon anvil of a question. As if Richie isn’t handling this with the grace of a screaming helium balloon let loose.

“I think you mean Tinder, buddy,” Richie says.

Eddie’s eyebrows pull together. “Is that the gay one? I’m looking for the one just for men.”

Richie’s having an out of body experience. His little yellow balloon self is going _wheeee_ somewhere in Earth’s upper atmosphere.

“Is this your way of coming out to me, man?” Holy shit, Richie’s palms itch. Eddie listed off the symptoms of a panic attack to Richie, once, and Richie’s pretty sure this is one of them. He’d ask Eddie for clarification, but it kind of feels like touching a hot pan and then asking it if it has any ice.

“I guess so,” Eddie says, thumbs flying away on his phone. He’s not looking at Richie, and Richie’s relieved and sad all at once.

“Oh. Well. Thanks for telling me, bro. Thanks for trusting me with this.” With the right words out of the way, he can now use his Richie words. “And like, feel free to hit me up for any dick sucking tips—”

“How would you know anything if you were so busy screwing my mom?”

“—I’m sure you’ve got condoms covered—fuck you and your mom’s dick, dude—anyway I probably don’t need to give you the safe sex talk, but, like, you know about douching, right?”

“Rich?”

“Yeah?”

“Be cool about this.” The look Eddie gives him has no right to be cute, but it’s Eddie, so it’s cute cute cute. All furrowed eyebrows and frowning mouth. Like an angry hedgehog or something equally woodland and adorable. But also kind of sexy? Sexy hedgehogs, Jesus, Richie is losing it.

“Grindr is good for hookups, man, are you ready for that?” Richie asks. Fuck comedy, he could have made a killing in acting, if this conversation is anything to go by.

“Oh, maybe I do mean Tinder, then,” Eddie says.

Which is how Richie Tozier spends the night teaching the man he’s in love with how to swipe right. He heckles Eddie into taking some new photos for the app, but slaps Eddie’s phone out of Eddie’s hands mid-selfie and uses his own phone. Because his phone has portrait mode and Eddie’s phone belongs in a museum next to the dinosaur shit, he says. He’s happy to help a bro out. He’s definitely not going to look at these later in the privacy of his bedroom and think sappy, homosexual thoughts about the depth of Eddie’s laugh lines and how they got there when Richie wasn’t around to make Eddie smile.

When Eddie picks out photos to use, Richie can’t help but notice they all feature his unblemished right cheek. It seems kind of rude to point out, so Richie lets it go. But he does swipe through the photos that evening in bed. With the brightness so low, it’s a little hard to see, but in Richie’s phone Eddie has a new contact photo, scars and all.

It’s two days later that Eddie announces his first date.

Eddie’s using a spiralizer to make zucchini noodles. Richie hates that those words are in his vocabulary now.

Eddie says, casual as anything, “So I have a date on Thursday.”

Richie freezes, zucchini curl halfway to his mouth. He’s all too aware of how close to Eddie he’s standing, and how they both seem a little too tense. “Oh?”

“Yeah, his name is Jason. He works in data. He seems nice.” Eddie is very focused on his noodles. “Want to see a picture?”

Richie under no circumstances wants to see a photo. “Sure, show me the guy who thinks he can make an honest man out of Eddie Kaspbrak.”

Eddie wipes his hands off on a dish towel and takes out his phone. The eyeroll does not escape Richie. “It’s one date, dude, I’m not looking for anything serious right now.”

“Pop a boner not pop the question, got it,” Richie says, to which Eddie mutters, “What does that even fucking mean.”

The guy looks… Handsome, actually. He’s younger than Eddie. Has the same wardrobe as Bill Denbrough. His hair is sort of long. Shaggy. Like Richie’s.

“Pretty cute,” Richie says, handing the phone back.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, “I’m looking forward to it.”

Richie’s looking forward to calling Bev after absolutely demolishing these peanut chicken zucchini noodles.

He catches her after dinner. Out on the patio where Eddie can’t hear him, he says, “Eddie has a date with some douchebag named Jason, which isn’t even a gay name, by the way.” The patio isn't big enough to pace on, but Richie gives it his all. He bumps into one of his wrought iron chairs.

“Hello to you, too,” Bev says, “I’m doing well, thanks for asking, Rich. How are you? Oh, still self-flagellating over avoidable problems? Huh.”

“Bev-er-ly.”

“Rich-ard.”

“Focus. How much tequila do you have? Nevermind, I’ll bring a bottle, we’re having margs on your fancy patio.”

“Well, I can’t say no to that,” Bev says, and Richie’s ordering a ride share before he’s even hung up.

It’s in the Uber that he realizes he might have accidentally outed Eddie to Bev. Then again, Beverly didn’t seem all that shocked by the Jason news. So either Richie’s a certifiable jackass, or Ms. Marsh knows something he doesn’t. Richie doesn’t want to think about what it means if Eddie didn’t come out to him first. All he wants in this moment is to watch the waves of Lake Michigan until the world goes fuzzy around the edges.

\---

Richie’s watching Netflix in the living room when Eddie walks downstairs on Thursday, ready for his date. Richie smells Eddie before he sees him. Eddie’s wearing some kind of cologne that makes him smell fresh and vaguely tropical. Richie thinks he smelled it once in a Macy’s and it had a name like Bahama Breeze or Sinful Caribbean. Richie’s own cologne makes him smell like dirt, but in a good, pine grove kind of way. The lumberjack to Eddie’s cruise ship captain.

When Eddie passes the couch, Richie quietly goes into cardiac arrest. Eddie’s wearing dark gray slacks, belt and all, with a soft blue button-up. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows in the precise, store mannequin display kind of way. There are loafers on his feet. Richie’s losing it.

Eddie’s adjusting his watch when he asks, tentatively, “Do I look okay?”

Richie thinks his throat clicks as he swallows, but it’s hard to think when his blood can’t decide if it should go to his brain or his dick. “Eddie, baby,” he finally says, “you look like a damn snack.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but Richie only continues because he has a terminal case of never shutting the fuck up, “I’m serious, Eds. Yowza. Turn around, let me see that ass, might wanna take a bite out of those buns.”

“Fuck off, you’re such a dick.” Is Eddie’s face red? Is Richie embarrassing the shit out of him? Oh man, what if Richie embarrasses him so bad Eddie doesn’t want to go on his date? Or, oh shit, what if Richie embarrasses him so bad Eddie’s confidence is ruined and he thinks he’s ugly and unlovable and—

Richie backpedals. Takes a stab at sincerity. “Really, you look good, dude.” I’d tap that is what he almost says, as a joke, but the joke is too close to the truth. Instead, it reverberates around in his hamster cage brain like the echoes of a gong. I’d tap that, I’d tap that, I’d tap that.

Eddie’s smile is thin-lipped but it’s still there when he says, “Thanks, Rich.”

And fuck. Eddie’s trying, here, the same way Richie was trying. Is trying. The same way Richie wanted to turn his life around, Eddie did, too, and Eddie’s doing an incredible job at it. Eddie survived a loveless marriage, nearly dying, the fucking clown. He’s a brave little man.

“Hey, man.” Richie’s shriveling like a sidewalk crack weed. He’s shocked to discover his chest hasn’t been drop kicked by a horse. There’s dread so cold and ugly in his belly he’s seriously starting to consider it’s a poisonous substance and should be tested for scientific purposes. He says, “I think it’s really cool that you’re putting yourself out there, Eds. I’m like, proud of you, dude.”

Eddie looks shocked. Like, shocked to the point where Richie feels he should be offended, because Eddie’s look is pretty much saying, Richie Tozier isn’t capable of the human practice known as complimenting and therefore has been replaced by an alien.

“Thanks, bro,” Eddie says a second before the silence can become officially uncomfortable.

Richie bears a shit-eating grin. “Go rock Jared’s world.”

Eddie points at Richie as he shrugs on his windbreaker. “It’s Jason, you dick, I know you know that.”

Richie does know that, but Eddie still laughed.

\---

Eddie comes home from his date very, very late. Not that Richie was waiting up for him. Richie simply fell asleep watching that Netflix show about dogs. Not because the dogs were boring. It’s that sometimes the body’s reaction to stress is to shut down completely.

Eddie flops down on the couch next to Richie. The cologne has worn off. Richie stifles a yawn and asks, “Did you have a good time?”

Eddie shifts so that he’s turned toward Richie, one leg curled up so that his knee is almost touching Richie’s thigh. He slides his hands under his head and rests both on the back cushion. Richie doesn’t know if he’s grateful or resentful of Sonia Kaspbrak for giving birth to the cutest man alive.

“It was really nice,” Eddie says.

Richie’s eyebrow goes up. “Nice? That’s it? That’s your glowing review for your first big gay date?”

“Yeah, dickwad, it is. I don’t know, I’ve never really enjoyed dating before, beyond having a good meal. But this was like. Nice. We had drinks, then we went to his place for a night cap. And…”

Eddie’s quiet for a while. Richie dons his professor voice. “Well, Eds, it’s well-documented that for every decent fella out there, five are only in search of a pretty face or a pretty dick.” The voice drops as he continues, “Seriously, like, don’t feel bad or feel pressured to put out—”

“Oh, no, we had sex,” Eddie says. “He gave me a blowjob. And I— Rich? You okay?”

Richie is not okay. Richie is so far from okay. Richie is whatever the complete opposite of okay is, and then some. He can’t meet Eddie’s eyes. There’s something tight going on in his throat/jaw/mouth region. The room is too hot. “Yeah, man, I’m good, tell me more about how Jake from State Farm boned your brains out.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. His big, stupid, beautiful bambi eyes. He continues, “Well, I mean. There’s not much more to tell. It was good, though.” Eddie smiles and that smile takes a sledgehammer directly to Richie’s wine glass of a heart. “I’m glad I’m getting out there. It feels good, man. I mean, I don’t know if I’m gonna take my shirt off any time soon, but, hey, it’s good to know there are guys out there who would still want me.” Richie shatters from the inside out.

I WANT YOU, YOU DUMB SHIT, Richie screams inside his skull, half-hoping the clown secretly gave Eddie telepathy at some point. I WANT YOU WITH OR WITHOUT THE SHIRT. I WANT ALL OF YOU, ALL THE TIME.

Richie doesn’t know what his face is doing but it must be pretty fucking horrendous because Eddie straightens and asks again, “Seriously, Richie, are you good? Do you have a fever or something?”

“Bad burrito,” Richie says before bolting to the bathroom. Like a coward. And he thought he got over the whole “fear” thing! He came out of the closet, he’s sucking five dicks a week, why! Isn’t! This! Getting! Better!

He knows what the answer is. It’s that he’s not being honest with himself. It’s that the Peters and the Todds and the Johns can’t help him when he’s not trying to get over Eddie. That the only way for this to get better or easier is to tell Eddie so that one way or another he can move on.

He just really, really wants to move on with Eddie. And he really, really doesn’t know how.

\---

Eddie’s next date is over brunch, which means he gets back at a reasonable hour. Because that’s where Richie’s at in life, right now, counting the hours like an overprotective father waiting for his daughter to come back from the Homecoming dance.

This date isn’t with Jason. It’s with Eric the lawyer. Eddie dressed casually this time around in a gray t-shirt and jeans which shouldn’t have taken Richie’s breath away, but it did. Or maybe that was Sinful Caribbean, who knows. When Eddie gets back, Richie suggests they debrief over beers on the patio, but it’s not until they’re on their second round—combined with the morning’s Bloody Marys, probably fourth or fifth round for Eds—before Richie gets all the gory details. About how Eric was gentle. About how Eric and Eddie jerked each other off. About how Eric’s condo in South Loop was made from one of those converted warehouses so the windows were huge and Eddie was afraid someone on the street would see his ass cheeks hanging out. It’s a real shame Richie’s patio isn’t bigger, so that he could move out of earshot from this story he asked for, or lower, so that he could fling himself away from this conversation without breaking his neck.

Eddie looks so fucking happy, though.

“Being with men is good,” Eddie says, “who knew?”

“Wow, it’s almost like you’re gay or something,” Richie says.

“I am.” Eddie smiles. Richie experiences the familiar sensation of his heart melting out his asscrack. “I’m super gay.”

It’s the first time Eddie’s said it outloud like that. To Richie, at least. And because Richie is stupid and in love and a definitely tipsy, he says, “Jesus, fourteen-year-old Richie would have had a field day hearing that.”

Eddie’s face drops. “What?”

“Oh. Ha. I mean, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. Did you have a crush on me when we were kids or something?”

“Uhm.” Richie swallows once. Richie swallows twice. Richie thinks fuck it, the truth is just a fucking clown. “Yeah? Did you not see the huge boner I had pointed in your direction at all times in the early 90s?”

“You didn’t shut the fuck up about my mom! Like, ever!”

“Yeah, I have a Kaspbrak fetish, who knew.”

Eddie’s holding his chin in his hand. He laughs softly into his palm and says, “That’s so fucking embarrassing for you, dude, I was such an awkward kid.”

Richie smacks Eddie’s arm. “What the fuck are you talking about! You were adorable! Remember how I would pinch your cheek and—”

Eddie deflects Richie’s hand before Richie can reenact any nostalgia-induced cheek-pinching. Because he’s a shit, Richie playfully slaps Eddie back, which means Eddie has to slap Richie, and so on, until they’re giggling and touching and maybe falling into nostalgic patterns, after all.

Their laughter goes quiet but their smiles stay on and their eyes stay soft. Richie can hear his blood in his ears and it sounds an awful lot like _Be proud be brave be proud be brave be_ —

“You aren’t half bad yourself, Trashmouth,” Eddie mumbles.

“Oh, no, I was the worst kid, you don’t have to beat around the bush.”

“No, I mean now. You’re pretty okay now. You’re taking care of me. You’re pretty good at taking care of people, Rich.”

And what the fuck is Richie supposed to say to that? Is he supposed to say, no, I’m not? Is he supposed to say, Eds, Eddie my love, half the reason you’re here is because I can’t say no to you, the other half is guilt? The thing is, seeing Eddie in the hospital after Neibolt, Richie didn’t think anything could drag him away from Eddie’s side. The thing is, he was dragged away regardless. It was so mundane. Some issue with the plumbing back home and suddenly Richie had to deal with water damage and home insurance and pissy downstairs neighbors who insisted he pay for their new drywall, as if Richie didn’t have bigger things to deal with. He was there when Eddie woke up but he wasn’t there to help Eddie through anything after. Bev and Ben did that. They were the ones who barred Myra from Eddie’s hospital room, who helped Eddie through the first, shaky stages of PT in Bangor, who got Eddie settled in New York before heading out to Chicago and Omaha. Bill and Mike checked in on Eddie while Richie hid away in his condo and claimed he was trying to salvage his career and lived each day afraid of his feelings and afraid of how much he let Eddie down.

Is he supposed to lay all his innards out on the table like that?

“Not as good as you, Mr. Fanny Pack,” is what Richie settles on.

“I’m being fucking sincere, you jackass. I might be able to help somebody clean a wound, but you can make them feel good. You make me laugh.”

“Aww, Eds, you’re making me blush.” He really is, but he can blame the alcohol. He can’t meet Eddie’s eyes. He picks at the soggy beer label in his hands.

When he finally looks up at Eddie, Eddie’s already looking at him, his beer-slicked lips haloing the mouth of the bottle. Richie doesn’t know what this moment means. Or—he has an idea, has been locked in this moment before over dinner and in bars and once, memorably, in the bath house in Boystown. He just doesn’t know what it means right now, with Eddie, who’s so new to this whole thing and isn’t versed in the intricacies of the male gays’ male gaze.

“You’re too fucking easy, man,” Eddie says.

“Only for you,” Richie replies. Is this flirting? Are they seriously flirting right now?

Eddie spreads his legs wider and knocks Richie’s knee with his own. Oh! Flirting it is.

Eddie puts his beer on the table.

“Eds,” Richie says.

Eddie kisses him.

It’s a kiss thirty years in the making. There are no fireworks. There is summer heat. The humidity has made the skin tacky where Richie’s hand falls on Eddie’s neck. Crickets are chirping in the fading light. There is Eddie’s mouth on Richie’s and the taste of an IPA between them.

They kiss for a while.

It’s Richie who finally pulls away. He feels like they should talk about this. He says, “What about Eric?”

Eddie blinks owlishly at him. His mouth is shiny and there’s a red patch on his chin where Richie’s stubble dragged against his skin. “I was trying to make you jealous, dumbass.”

“Well it sure as shit worked,” Richie confesses immediately, because he’s embarrassing like that, “I’m green as the Jolly fucking Giant.”

Eddie’s smirk would be annoying if it wasn’t sexy. Maybe it’s annoyingly sexy. “Serves you right, asshole. Taste of your own medicine.”

Richie is confused. “I’m confused.”

“What, like you weren’t trying to make me jealous? With all those guys you’ve been going out with?”

“What? No! Dude, I was trying to get over you!”

Eddie’s look could steamroll a small office building. “Even after I came out to you? Seriously, Rich?”

“You came out to me by asking me for dating advice! That’s so messed up, Eds!”

“Fuck me for forgetting you’re psychologically incapable of taking a hint!”

“Why are we fighting instead of fucking!”

“I don’t know!” Eddie opts for standing and slamming open the patio door. He doesn’t close it, just beelines to the stairs, expecting Richie to follow. Richie follows.

Eddie heads into Richie’s room. Richie barely makes it past the door frame before Eddie’s kissing him again, much more urgent than on the patio. Richie’s struggling to keep up, hardly knows where to put his hands as Eddie keeps squirming—hands first on Richie’s hips, then his shoulders, then unbuttoning his shirt. So eager.

Eddie has the shirt halfway off Richie’s shoulders when Richie breaks away and asks, “What do you want, Eds?”

In the dimness of the room, Eddie’s eyes look all pupil. “Blow me.”

Richie doesn’t need to be told twice. He backs Eddie up to the bed and Eddie crawls up toward the headboard. Richie removes his shirt fully before climbing over Eddie and dipping his head to kiss him once, twice, three times. He settles into Eddie’s lap, then Richie’s hands slip under Eddie’s shirt and begin to roam. They tug the hem of Eddie’s shirt up an inch.

“No,” Eddie says loud and sharp in a cornered animal kind of way.

“Eds,” Richie says. He leans forward and rests his forehead on Eddie’s chest, right where he knows the scarring is deepest. He plants a kiss over the cotton and rests there for one breath. Two. “Please.”

“Richie, I—”

“C’mon, man, I want to see all of you.”

Richie lifts his head to look at Eddie, whose expression has shifted from panicked to uncertain. Eddie is warm under his palms. Richie cautiously moves the hem up another inch, then moves down to lay a single kiss above Eddie’s waistband.

“Is this okay?” Richie asks. When he looks up at Eddie, Eddie’s eyes are on the ceiling, but he nods.

It continues like that, Richie peppering kissing along the softness of Eddie’s belly and checking in every couple inches until the shirt is up to Eddie’s armpits and the scar is exposed in all its puckered, discolored glory.

“Eddie, look at me,” Richie says. It takes a moment, but Eddie finally looks at him. Maintaining eye contact, Richie strokes his palms up and down Eddie’s sides, feeling the muscles twitch, and places a tender kiss in the heart of the scar. He keeps his lips there.

Then he blows a raspberry.

“Dude!” Eddie laughs, and it’s the sweetest sound Richie knows.

Richie pulls Eddie’s t-shirt over his shoulders, and then his real work begins. He retraces the path of his kisses and enjoys the small gust of air tickling his hair from Eddie’s sighs. When he gets to Eddie’s belt buckle, he pauses for a moment.

“Any day now, R—,” Eddie begins, but cuts off with a groan as Richie palms his dick through the denim.

“I’m getting to it,” Richie says, unbuckling Eddie’s belt and making quick work of the jeans’ top button, but taking his time with the zipper. The slow drag of it against Eddie’s cock is enough for Eddie to start cursing under his breath, and Richie has mercy on the poor fucker, mostly because he’s not sure how much longer he can go without Eddie’s dick in his mouth.

Richie doesn’t fuck around any longer than he has to. Eddie lifts his hips as Richie removes his briefs and jeans, sliding them down Eddie’s legs and throwing them over his shoulder when they’re freed. Eddie’s socks are still on, but Richie has other priorities—namely, going to town on Eddie’s erection.

Eddie’s dick is probably the most amazing penis in the whole universe, Richie thinks, not necessarily because it’s the biggest or the thickest but because it’s Eddie’s and Richie has waited so long to take Eddie into his mouth. Richie bends forward and licks a flat line up the underside of Eddie’s cock before taking the head into his mouth. At Eddie’s sharp inhale, Richie begins moving.

Bent forward like this with most of his ass in the air is not his favorite position, but it’s easier on the knees than the floor, which is a thing Richie has come to care about in his forties. Then Eddie runs a hand through Richie’s hair and suddenly it’s his favorite position of all time. Eddie’s quieter than Richie would have expected. The man spends 90% of his time running his mouth, but in bed, it’s mostly gasps and the occasional fuck. That last one in particular is going straight to Richie’s dick.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” Eddie moans with his hand tightening in Richie’s hair to the point of discomfort, and that’s all the encouragement Richie needs to really suck Eddie’s dick like it’s an Olympic sport.

“R— Richie, I—” is all the warning Richie gets before Eddie comes hot in his mouth. Richie’s very glad he can swallow semen like a champ because, at his heart, he’s a show-off.

He pulls off Eddie’s cock as he sits back up. Richie’s fingers run through Eddie’s pubic hair, up his chest, past the big scar, all the way up to the little scar on Eddie’s cheek.

“Good?” he asks with a tentative smile.

Eddie surges up to kiss him in response. Richie thought Eddie was eager before. Richie was wrong. Eddie’s eager now—kissing Richie hot and wet and messily, taking Richie’s bottom lip between his teeth. Who taught Eddie to kiss like this? Was it Eric? Richie needs to send the guy flowers.

Eddie flips them so that Richie’s back hits the mattress. Eddie grinds into Richie’s lap and his mouth is back on Richie’s before Richie can even respond. Richie’s pretty sure he’s ten seconds away from coming in his pants, which he tells Eddie.

“Let me blow you,” Eddie says. The fact that Richie doesn’t black out on the spot is another one of those minor miracles.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to,” Richie starts before Eddie cuts him off.

“What do you think those other guys were for? They were practice.” Eddie’s hands are in Richie’s pants. “I wanted to be good for you.”

Richie’s quickly realizing he doesn’t have a clue what goes on in that skull of Eddie’s, but he’s fucking thrilled to find out.

Richie doesn’t last long. Eddie’s not terrible at this considering he started studying the art of the BJ two weeks ago. The sight is what does it for Richie, though. The sight of Eddie Kaspbrak’s lips stretched wide over his dick. The sight of Eddie’s hollowed out cheeks. The sight of something he’s craved for so long, tangible between his legs.

“Eddie I’m close,” he squeaks out.

Eddie rocks back on his heels and jerks Richie off to climax. When Richie comes, it’s messy. He manages to mostly spray his own chest, but a fair amount slides slick down Eddie’s fingers.

Eddie looks at the cum on his hand for a moment before licking it clean.

Which. Holy shit.

Eddie looks back down at Richie’s speckled chest. “Do you have anything for that?”

Richie gestures vaguely to a box of tissues on the nightstand. Eddie reaches over and collects a couple tissues, one which he uses for his hand, the other he uses to mop Richie’s chest. Richie can feel a few spots Eddie’s missed which are going to feel gross and crusty in his chest hair later if he doesn’t do something about them. He doesn’t do a damn thing about them.

“C’mere,” Richie says, and pulls Eddie down to lay with him on the bed. Eddie nudges Richie onto his side so they can spoon. Richie should have known Eddie’s a cuddly fuck. He’s part sexy hedgehog.

Eddie’s arm snakes over Richie’s torso. He strokes his fingers through Richie’s chest hair and pushes one of his legs between Richie’s. Motherfucker is still wearing socks.

It’s nice. It’s warm. It’s quiet. Which is weird, because the two of them are never quiet.

“So do you, like, wanna be my boyfriend,” Richie asks to break the silence.

Eddie punches him in the shoulder.

“Ow! Shit, Kaspbrak, I’m pretty fucking sure you can’t do that to your boyfriend!”

“No, but I can do it to my roommate,” Eddie says.

Cool, so, all Richie has to do now is pretend like his heart didn’t get flushed down the toilet. “Oh.”

Mission failed.

“Richie. I’m fucking with you. I hope sucking your dick made it extremely clear how interested I am in dating you. I—” Eddie cuts himself off.

Richie holds his breath.

“...I care about you a lot, man,” Eddie says, snuggling closer and planting a kiss at Richie’s nape, the same way Richie dreamed about kissing Eddie over his dumb omelette.

“I should fucking hope so,” Richie says in place of the thing he wants to say, which is, of course, I love you.

But Richie will save that for another day. First, he needs to take Eddie out for a date.

**Author's Note:**

> Yell at me and my life choices on twitter @smallfrysteel


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